Vicarious
by LeFay Strent
Summary: There's a fine line between yearning for love and actually wanting it to happen. For Arthur, he is content with living his desires out vicariously. When he's faced with the real thing, however, the fall is frightening. USUK / college AU
1. Chapter 1

Nowadays, we can experience the world moving past us without ever having to be involved in it. We can sit behind screens and choose what we want to see. Books, movies, television, games—every avenue that enables us to find contentment in immersion sits ready for the taking. And if something we see displeases us? We can simply turn it off.

Nothing affects you if you live on the periphery. Close enough to believe you're a part of something, yet distant enough to keep you safe.

~{}~

There's a man I fancy who doesn't know I even exist.

Perhaps this same scenario has occurred to some of you before as well. I've heard of this happening to others, and I know that it's often used as a plot device in novels and other forms of entertainment. Every instance that I've heard where it's used, the characters describe this as a 'problem'.

A problem? I don't see what all the fuss is about. You're fortunate to have found someone worthy of your affection. He could look up at any moment and notice your interest. He could come sweep you off your feet, share himself with you and ask you to do the same. He could fall in love with what he finds.

Or, he may not. You could be the reason he smiles, for a while, but he's not obligated to love you. No one is. The chance that he will is minimal. The chance that he could hurt you, intentionally or otherwise? Far too high.

The man I fancy doesn't know I exist, and that's all right. I tell him everything I need to in my dreams.

~{}~

He eats lunch outside the campus radio station.

The student center where most people get their meals from is nearby. A sea of red tables spill out around it, as if the building cannot hold the hungry masses. The number of tables trickle down the farther out you go, until there are only a small scattering by the radio station. I was first lured here by the lack of people and the music. A couple of wall speakers are situated outside of the station, spewing out alternative rock mainly. It's nice to sit there in view of the clock tower and watch the occasional cat prowl by in search of scraps.

He goes there every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday around noon. I don't know about Tuesdays and Thursdays, as I have classes around that time, and I've yet to see him there during weekends. I suppose, like me, he has a bit of time to spare on the days I do see him. Half the time I see him eating by himself, always reading or jotting things in a notebook while he bobs his head to the music.

Though I can't tell exactly what he's doing or thinking, he tends to find a reason to grin. If his lips do not curve upward, then the smile is in his eyes. All the way from here I can see the sky in his eyes, so vast and wondrous. The glasses he wears don't detract from their allure in the slightest.

Even when studying, he seems to enjoy himself. I savor his joyful spirit by sitting beside him in my mind. There—and only there—I'll dare to reach out, run a hand through his short sandy locks, and turn that smile my way.

~{}~

Half the time I see him eating by himself. The other half of the time, he brings friends here. On those days, he ignores his books and talks to them. I'm close enough to listen.

They call him 'Al'. Amidst the flowing banter, I hang on to that name every time it is mentioned.

"Have you picked a paper topic for McCarthy's midterm, Al?"

"No, Al, you can't skip English class. And a cardboard cut-out of yourself won't fool the professor."

"Al, you're good at math, right? Teach me your ways before I fail."

"Pretty sure the dorms don't allow cats, but if you want to sneak them in, have at it, Al."

I listen carefully to their words just as I do his, all in an effort to glean more information about my heart's interest. I grow curious about them over time, these friends of his. What brought them together? And what does he see in them?

As I watch them eat and laugh, I wonder what he would see in me as well.

~{}~

After lunch on those certain days, Al goes to the Liberal Arts building.

I discovered this the second day I ever saw him. The first I spent sitting in dazed wonder at the sight of him. He never noticed, sat at one of those red tables as he was, focused on food and books. There wasn't anything special about those activities, though he somehow managed to look lovelier than anything I'd ever seen. He moved in an enigmatic rhythm. His eyes drank in the pages before him, curious and eager. And when he found something to smile about, it was like the sun shone down on him alone.

The suddenness of it overwhelmed me. I could hardly think, let alone move to follow him once he finished. When I realized he was gone, I sat there touching my chest and willing the startling ache to recede.

The feeling stubbornly remained. Therefore, I came back to those tables outside the radio station every chance I had. I lingered, even when the sky drizzled. I wouldn't be discouraged, not when I had to understand what had happened, to assure myself he wasn't a dream.

~{}~

Two days later, he returned. Along with him came the peculiar sensation from my chest again, only this time it fluttered throughout me, sending signals to awaken every nerve in my body. It shook me as much as it entranced me.

I did not know this man. He never spoke a word to me. So why did he utterly capture my attention? Why did he make the mundane come alive with every movement, every breath? What did he do to me, that something triggered inside of me and told me, "He's important"?

I couldn't fathom the reason. That's why I couldn't let him walk away again, at least without seeing where he went. I needed a few more moments, while this feeling pounded within me tangibly. I needed to find the reason why.

~{}~

That's what I told myself anyway. The alternative was too impossible. People don't fall in love at first sight.

To this day, I refuse to believe it. The closest I'll allow is infatuation. It can happen to anyone, given the right circumstances. My experience was only a little more . . . potent than most. And I've never experienced anything to that extent before. It was little wonder that I followed him that day.

He entered the building through the stairwell and up the stairs he went. I was careful trailing after him, lest he should spot me. My steps scarcely felt my own, like my limbs had been infused with all the airiness of a cloud. I floated more than walked up to the second floor where he exited.

The English department was located on this floor, as well as most of the foreign language classes. The classroom he ducked into must have been one of those subjects. I didn't stay long enough to find out. I probably could have, but I would have risked him seeing me. Reason told me that nothing serious would happen, if he noticed me, but I was beyond reason then.

When I heard his class begin, I doubled-back to the stairwell and made my way through the first floor hallways. The center of the Liberal Arts building has a small courtyard with stone benches, flowerbeds, and a wooden stage in the center where students perform on Shakespeare Day. It's surrounded on all four sides by the faded tan bricks of the building, but the open sky above makes the place seem larger than it really is. I frequent this place to read or find some peace of mind.

That day, I did not find peace. I hid there for hours replaying events, seeing his image time and time again behind my closed eyelids, and at the end I came to a terrifying conclusion.

I was in love.

~{}~

I will reiterate: People do not fall in love at first sight. In the initial confusion, it was easy to deceive myself in the midst of such an onslaught of sensation. Eventually I sorted through it and found it was nothing more than a natural attraction. In time, it grew to become this . . . this vicarious sense of love.

It was easier to accept after that. The way he invades my thoughts is no longer met with apprehension. They are nothing more than thoughts, _my_ thoughts. I can control them and construct a safe place to keep them. The only indulgence outside of them I permit are those certain days I spend observing Al from afar. When he leaves to attend class, I do not follow him. I don't need to. He keeps me company in that safe place outside reality.

~{}~

There's a piano beside the radio station, sandwiched between an outdoor stairwell and a wall. If you walk by the stairwell without looking carefully, you can easily miss it. No one I've asked seems to know how the piano got there. It showed up at the beginning of this semester, an upright, dusty old thing. Some of the keys don't work so well, but overall it's still playable.

It won't stay playable for too long, left forgotten and exposed to the elements as it is. While I can, I've been making use of it. There are a number of other pianos I could use around campus, all in much better condition. I suppose I sympathize with this one. It's not its fault it was left here. And I don't know what it's been through, but it's managed to hold on this long. Its final days deserve to be filled with music.

"Hello old girl," I say as I stroke the ivory in greeting.

I come here to play on those days I see Al. After he leaves for class, I'm reluctant to return to my empty dorm room. I'd rather while my time away here, letting my fingers dance over the keys, lost in melodies and the thought that Al might hear my songs and come sit with me. I can see him, eyes closed, head nodding to the music. He'd be smiling too, always smiling.

I begin with a series of warm-up scales and chord runs that swiftly morph into improvisations. There is a hypnotic charm in letting your hands move instinctively. Your consciousness withdraws from what's around you. You forget where you are, that people are passing by and some slowing down to listen. Nothing matters, no thoughts are needed, and the notes spill out in any way they wish, fluidly shifting keys from sorrowful minor to inspiring major.

It could go on forever. I could let the music have its way until I found the next masterpiece, a concerto to move the world. But I end it before it's really begun and the last chord hangs bitter sweet in the air as an afterthought of what could have been.

"Wow, you're really good."

Reality shifts back into focus and I find I am not alone. The man I love is standing there, closer than we've ever been before. His hand holds the strap of his book bag hanging off one shoulder, and he wears an awed expression, like he's been a stranger to music his whole life. Those eyes shift like ocean waves from the piano to wash over me. To drown me.

This isn't a dream. We're meeting for the very first time.

I'm helpless to stop it.

* * *

 **Sometimes I forget I can write things besides humor. I just wanted to do something more serious and artistic, and I also wanted to practice a style in brevity. And I feel this is a topic that perhaps a lot of people can relate to? Arthur's character certainly struck me as being the sort. And I do mainly write stories in third-person, but I couldn't imagine this being anything other than first-person, and present tense at that. It allows the narrative to be closer, more personal and in the moment, ya know? Or that's what I'm going for at least.**

 **Anyone interested in me continuing this? I do have some ideas for this AU, so if I get some good feedback I might be motivated to work on it. And can anyone guess what their majors are? (hint, they're not the typical one's you probably expect or see in most fics)**


	2. Chapter 2

From the inside of our cozy homes, we can appreciate the rain. It comes in erratic cycles, each drop knocking against the roof, the windows, the door. A thrumming sound that marks the flow of life. Too little and we'll thirst. Too much and the floods can sweep away everything we've built.

From the inside looking out, we can appreciate the rain until it passes. Until it's safe to venture out.

Who is to blame then, when the sky opens up unexpectedly? When our clothes are drenched, our skin shocked with wet cold?

It is easy to find fault with the weather. If the patterns did not change . . . if the clouds could have held their burden a little longer . . .

Otherwise, we must fault ourselves for not being prepared. We could have taken the bus, or an umbrella. We could have waited until the storm had passed for certain. We could have stayed inside altogether, never risked the chance.

I won't admit I grew careless.

I won't.

~[ ]~

There he stands staring at me, tall body blocking my only escape. Would it make a difference if he stepped aside? Could I remind my paralyzed legs of the importance of running? They are as numb as the rest of me. Shocked into silence as the world caves in. Suffocating me.

Then he smiles at me. At _me_. A sheepish little half smile, just for me.

"Sorry, didn't mean to sneak up on you. You looked really into it. I come by sometimes when people are playing, and man, there's some really talented people. Like you. I mean, you're talented. What was that song anyway?"

I struggle to process the fact that he is speaking to me, complimenting me even, trying to make conversation with me. He's watching me, eyes lively and expectant, and it's like the world abruptly expands back into place. I can breathe again and I blurt out an answer as he demands it.

"It's nothing," I say, and I haven't the time to be appalled at my mouth for speaking. Al's brows pinch together, but he still has that easy smile in place.

"Didn't sound like nothing to me," Al chuckles, the kind of good-natured laugh that invites everyone to listen. "It sounded like something people would pay lots of money for, just to get a chance to hear."

I avert my gaze down. My face heats up, and I have the strangest sensation of the piano bench melting underneath me, as if I could fall right through wood and stone.

"It's just improvisation," I say, my voice sounding small and distant to my own ears. In the back of my mind, I note that the converses Al wears have words scrawled across the ends in black sharpie. The left one says "Move" while the right says "Forward".

"You mean you made that up?" Al asks, an unidentifiable emotion making his tone softer. "Duuude . . . That's epic. Do you do that a lot?"

"Sometimes."

"I like that. I like that a lot. Don't need to play anyone else's song. Just wing it. I like to live life that way too, ya know? Don't think too much and things will settle out somehow."

I look up slowly to meet his gaze. In the shadowed corridor, he shines with sincerity.

"I'm Alfred by the way," he says, thrusting a hand towards me. "Alfred F. Jones, at your service. What's your name, Mr. Piano Man?"

He's reaching out to me, and before I can stop myself, I meet him in the middle. His larger hand grips my thin fingers securely, assuring me that he is real.

"I'm Arthur."

~[ ]~

I return to my dorm to find that my roommate is in our room.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

Francis sits at his desk, laptop in front of him with what looks to be SparkNotes open. He flicks back the blond hair that has strayed from the tie at the base of his neck. He smiles a smile at me that usually riles me up. "I do visit now and then, you know. Seeing as I live here too."

"But you have class . . ." I trail off when I notice the clock on my bedside table.

Francis arches a brow. "Yes, I _did_. At two."

At two, when Alfred was meant to be in class as well, a class whose professor had apparently canceled for the day. Now, the hands of the clock indicate that it is four o'clock.

Alfred and I talked for nearly two hours.

"Are you feeling alright?" Francis asks, sounding genuinely concerned for all of a moment. Then he laughs. "Need big brother to take care of you? I've been told I have a pleasing bedside manner."

"No, I'm fine," I tell him. I can't muster my normal fire like whenever we exchange gibes, and Francis is too perceptive not to notice. He becomes more serious.

"Really Arthur, you sound rather lost. Did something happen?"

I lay on my bed, back turned to him. The cool sheets and thin mattress are an empty comfort.

"No. I'm just tired," I say.

He tries to talk to me more, rouse me into some sort of action. I ignore him for the rest of the day.

~[ ]~

Our first conversation. Truly it could not be called that. Weeks upon weeks spent fantasizing about how the pivotal moment would go, and I could not muster up more than short, muttered responses.

"Do you come out here to play often? 'Cause I don't think I've seen you around, and I know _a ton_ of people."

But Alfred, he had no trouble in speech. He radiated confidence.

"Well, not like _know_ know, but I recognize their faces. And I talk to a lot. I like meeting new people, hearing their stories. Everyone's got one, even if they don't think it."

Except there were small clues that told me otherwise, hints I never picked up on before.

"I guess that's my major talking a little. I'm in history. What about you?"

An honest attempt at connecting. Not from someone who viewed himself as the sun, everything else running laps around him. Just an interested person who wants to be seen as interesting as well.

"Music education? Heh, I shoulda figured, the way you played. Any particular reason why?"

If I told him I wasn't interested, that I wanted him to stop bothering me, I felt a distinct certainty that he would walk away.

"No dude, that's not boring at all! If it's something you're passionate about, I think you should be proud."

Despite knowing this, I couldn't force the words out.

"The way I see it, you don't have to research cures for cancer or join the military to make a difference or be important. I thought about doing something like that, but I had to ask myself what I really wanted."

It wasn't the fact that, finally confronted with him face-to-face, I couldn't pass on the opportunity of having him to myself, if for a while. To talk to him, to live in that kind gaze, to discover all the details about him that I had only imagined before.

"My mom thought I was crazy. 'What are you going to do with a history degree?' I don't know, but it makes me happy. Isn't that what counts?"

The truth was that I couldn't bear to see how he would look at me, should I turn him away. How hurt would he be? How disappointed? Disappointed . . . in me.

"I'll figure it out. How 'bout you? Any idea what you want to do?"

It was why I had never crossed the line, step out where he would notice me. I could remain content being that nameless face two tables over that he wouldn't remember seeing.

"A private tutor, huh? I bet you'd be good at it. Open up your own business and have people lining up to see you."

But now he has seen me. He has seen me and my inane sense of self-worth prevents me from doing anything to displease him.

"I had fun chatting with you, Arthur. You're cool. I'll see you around."

But neither can I fall into him willingly. As much as he threatens to pull me under, I cannot give him any more of myself.

"Maybe," I tell him. Not quite a promise, but not a rejection either. He smiles all the same and I watch him walk away, heart thudding in my ears.

~[ ]~

Now that he has seen me, he cannot un-see me.

I spend the night staring endlessly at the wall, and once the morning comes, I have convinced myself that Al . . . _Alfred_ . . . had been nothing more than a dream. A lucid dream of breaking ice and discussing ambitions and sharing precious minutes by an old, forgotten piano. A dream of hopeful smiles and shoes bearing wisdom and reasons to linger a little longer.

In the dim light of dawn, it is easy to forget the fright of yesterday. It is easy because I tell myself that the chance for dreams comes once in a lifetime. I have spent mine up with nothing to show for it other than the memories I carry, and that is more than enough for me. More than what I ever thought I would receive.

It won't happen again. Yesterday was a mere accident. I will be more cautious.

Despite my resolve, I can't account for him.

~[ ]~

I am careful. I don't dare to wander towards the radio station, especially on those days when I know Alfred will be there. I don't go near the piano in the stairwell either. A dream he was and a dream he will remain.

But as I said. Now that he has seen me, he can't un-see me.

I don't know why that is. Not when the first impression I gave him must have been dull at best. By sheer optimistic nature, Alfred was able to carry our conversation on in spite of my lukewarm responses.

That's why I can't understand why he chases me down in front of the music hall on my way to class.

"I saw you across the way. Did you not hear me hollering? What's up, dude?"

Or why he bothers to go out of his way to talk to me in the cafeteria.

"Arthur! You eating alone? 'Cause I'm eating alone too, so I thought, why not eat alone, but _together_?"

He could walk the other way, and yet he approaches me in the library while I'm printing off materials for the next day's lecture.

"So I've got this one lame professor who wants us to use a book source from the actual library instead of using the online catalogue. Sucks, am I right? Why can't we just write papers without sources?"

For the weeks that follow, Alfred seems to appear at every turn. He is suddenly everywhere, in places I've frequented for months and have never seen him around. Had he always been there and I have simply never noticed? No. Surely I would have seen him. So why?

Why does he not let me sink back into the background? I still can't turn him away, but it's not as if I welcome him with open arms. I don't smile around him. He makes me happy, but I can't show that, not while there are aspects of him that scare me.

And yet . . .

"I always find you in the weirdest of places."

We're sitting under a tree on a bench facing a large fountain. The water churns around a stone figure of a kneeling woman. Every now and then, students will see fit to decorate the lady and her miniature lake. A sombrero here, goldfish in the water there. The university staff look upon the incidents as a tradition in creativity.

I don't look in Alfred's direction where he sits to my right. I stare resolutely at the Norton Anthology on my lap, the pages open to Oscar Wilde's play "The Importance of Being Earnest". Truthfully, I haven't been able to comprehend a single word since Alfred sat beside me.

"We're in the center of campus," I murmur. "Hardly an unusual place."

"Statement still stands," he replies. "I find you in weird places. Like when you were petting cats by that little park area by Davidson Hall."

"I could have been waiting for class."

"Why not wait inside then?"

"Perhaps I wanted to be alone. Away from people."

"But cats are okay?"

"Cats are always okay. Much preferable to humans."

Alfred takes a moment to smile, and I catch the flash of white in my peripheral vision. He's staring at the fountain, eyes narrowed in thought. I don't know why he's lingering again, or why I always respond to him. It's just that, he talks to me, asks me questions, and I must respond. As uninteresting as I must come across, he somehow finds a reason to laugh, like I've brightened his day a bit.

"Ya know, Arthur," Alfred begins deliberately, like he's come to some conclusion. "You're a funny guy."

This time, I don't know how to respond. He's complimenting me, or deciding that I'm too strange and beyond his understanding. Be it good or bad, I don't want to mistake his intentions. So I grunt or hum or whatever sound that sounds like I know what he means.

He catches me off guard then by asking, "Do you want to be alone now? . . . do you want me to leave?"

The automatic 'no' hangs at the end of my tongue, a desperate little word that needs to be said as much as it can't be said.

With more attention than the action warrants, I turn the page of my book. Above us, clouds are rolling in, a warning of the storm to come. A cool breeze blows and I smooth the page down, muscles too tense but at least my hand isn't shaking.

"Stay if you want," I tell him in a tone that says it doesn't matter to me what he does.

"Alright then," he answers and doesn't move to get up.

~[ ]~

I cannot sink, though I cannot swim to shore.

And so I'm stuck treading water.

* * *

 **Arthur is a complicated fellow, and I really do hope that I'm conveying what he's feeling right and pacing it well. Also, I love the idea of Alfred chasing Arthur down on his way to class, screaming his name, "Arthur! Arthuuuuur!" And Arthur powerwalking with his head down muttering to himself, "Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him," and Alfred jumping in front of him to cut him off. Alfred is not the type to be ignored.**

 **Thank you for your lovely reviews! There were a couple of interesting guesses for their majors, but no dice. I've not seen these two in fics before with the majors I've put them with here. Arthur's good in education, and he's into music, so I thought why not combine those? As for Alfred, being a history major is pretty unconventional for him, but he does have his reasons. Which we might learn more about in the future. :)**


	3. Chapter 3

Of all the struggles we may face, perhaps the most challenging are the ones that define the self. Most notably, adolescence is a stage of life we all suffer through. We fight to develop a sense of autonomy while still being very much dependent on our parents or those around us. We begin to question what we're taught, our own identities, and—more often than not—we begin to believe that we have experienced enough to know everything.

We are then our own sun. The planet, the stars, the voids of space in between—none are beyond our gravity. That is, until we grow up and see how blind and powerless we truly are.

But we never really stop growing, and disillusionment is a hard lesson to learn at any age.

~[ ]~

When I was young, I lived with my parents in England. In all honesty, I don't remember much about it. I can point out the city of Liverpool on a map, tell you about how its status as a thriving port city influenced its diverse population, or how it's the hometown of the Beatles and a major tourist destination. But outside of that? My personal history there?

I remember small snippets. Watching ferries cruise the waterfront. Walking down Mathew Street during a music festival. Playing in the back garden of our home.

The garden I remember most clearly. Back then, I had a tin box full of colored stones. I would sort them into rows and rings by colors and shapes. Over and over, I'd lay them in the grass, and I was convinced that if I put them in the right order, it would please the fairies hiding in the flowerbeds. They would see my offerings, how precisely I aligned each stone, and in return the fairies would come whisk me away to a magical land where I could no longer hear the shouts of my parents, their anger growing day by day.

I turned six a couple months before we moved to America. My mother's sister lived there, and we would go stay with her for a time.

"Why do we have to move?" I asked my mother. "Why isn't Daddy coming with us?"

I remember the way she shoved our clothes into suitcases, the harsh thumping the material made at the rough treatment, and the way she wouldn't look directly at me when she spoke.

"Because Daddy doesn't love us anymore."

We boarded a plane and never went back. I only cried when I realized I had forgotten my tin box of rocks in the back garden.

~[ ]~

I'm sitting in my English class one early afternoon. The lights are turned off and the projector plays the movie version of the play we're currently studying. I'm sitting at a table in the back, half paying attention to the comedy. I don't feel that guilty for zoning out, not when many of the other twenty-or-so students are having trouble keeping their eyes open. The professor sits nearby me, also watching the movie.

There are two doors that lead into the classroom, both of them positioned at opposite corners of the same wall to my right. The one towards the front of the room is closed; however, the back one is open for me to see Alfred standing in the hallway.

I wouldn't have noticed him had he not been waving frantically. My eyes are drawn to the motion, and once he catches me looking his way, he smiles and waves all the more enthusiastically, like a kid at a school performance who knows their parents are watching.

I duck my head and stare resolutely towards the movie. This is not real. Alfred is not standing in the hallway trying to get my attention.

But when I chance a glimpse at the doorway, he is indeed still there. He seems pleased that I'm looking again. So pleased that he begins swaying his body and moving his arms in a little dance.

It's absurd enough to nearly surprise me into laughter. I counteract the feeling by frowning at him and moving my hands in a shooing motion. It's bad enough that there are people passing Alfred, giving him weird looks, but the student sitting beside me also notices Alfred and how he refuses to stop dancing. Then the professor of course notices that we're not watching the movie and looks to see Alfred distracting us. She stands to close the back door, ignoring the way Alfred pouts at her for spoiling his fun.

I stare at the movie for the rest of the class and pretend I'm actually processing the events of the plot. The whole time I wonder why Alfred came here. To go to class or speak with a professor are good guesses, but did he really have to stop and embarrass himself for my attention? He could have continued walking . . . just like every other time . . .

God, what if he's still out there, waiting for my class to end?

My skin feels clammy by the time the movie ends and the professor dismisses us. I take longer than necessary to put away my things into my bag. Practically everyone has filtered out before I take my chances.

I don't even make it two steps.

"Yo, Arthur!"

Alfred stands off to the side hall by a bench where he's tossed his book bag haphazardly. There's a petite man beside him, a student from my English class. Dark hair, dark eyes, and noticeably Asian. He must be a friend of Al's. What they're staring at me for though, I haven't a clue. Does Alfred want to give a simple greeting and let me on my way? He was in the middle of talking with his friend. I don't want to be a bother, so I should just leave.

"Don't walk away without even saying hi, silly," Alfred lightly teases me and he is suddenly at my elbow, tugging me towards my classmate. I've never spoken to him before—Alfred's friend—and I fear this will be terribly awkward.

More than that, Alfred's touch overshadows everything. We haven't touched since we first shook hands weeks ago, and although I'm wearing a jacket, his fingers around my arm are scalding.

"I can't believe you guys are in the same class," Alfred exclaims after he's dragged me where he wants. "Isn't that awesome?"

The friend nods politely to me. "Hello Arthur. I'm Kiku, Alfred's roommate." He doesn't offer a hand to shake.

I'm slow to nod back, hyper-aware of the fact that Alfred hasn't let me go yet. "Erm, pleased to meet you." The way I murmur, I don't sound at all pleased. I probably sound downright rude. This was Alfred's roommate? God, what an impression I must be making. He's no doubt going to talk about me to Alfred after I leave, criticize my ill-manners or frumpy clothing.

"I also like cats," Kiku tells me seriously. Confides in me? The statement is random and I don't quite get it.

My mouth opens for a moment before I rethink my decision to speak.

The awkwardness passes. Kiku's reserved expression is unfazed. He directs his attention to Alfred. "I'll catch up with you later. If you'll excuse me, I need to see my advisor."

"Oh, wait, I forgot!" Alfred says too loudly and finally lets go of my arm to dive for his bag. He yanks on a star shaped zipper and rummages around until pulling out an envelope. He wags it in front of his roommate. "Don't you need this?"

Kiku's eyes widen and he clutches at his own bag for a moment, like he expects the envelope to be there instead. "I must have left it on my desk . . . I'm sorry, Alfred, that you had to bring it all the way to me. I'll try not to be so forgetful."

Alfred smiles and hands it over. "Don't worry about it, bro. You can count on me, your friendly neighborhood hero."

Kiku gives a small smile, thanks him, and nods to both of us as he leaves. It's only Alfred and I now standing together as crowds of students walk around us.

Alfred turns to me, grinning. "And then there were two."

~[ ]~

I'm too anxious and it shows. I've been so good at controlling myself around Alfred, not letting myself slip up. But as he follows me around the Liberal Arts building, I can't stop fiddling with my hands or the cuffs of my sleeves or anything that will help me get a grip.

"Why . . ." I start, and there's a voice in my head screaming _stop, don't say it, just let him talk at you until he gets bored_ , but I can't keep the rest from tumbling out, not when Alfred's looking at me, waiting patiently. "Why are you following me?"

He arches a brow and I panic for a moment, thinking I've insulted him. "There a reason I shouldn't be?"

"No! I—no," I stammer. We walk by a patch of wall with a mural painted on it, a bunch of pretty fish swimming over gray stones. I want to stop and press myself against it, maybe meld into the colors and disappear. Or at least bang my head until I'm unconscious. "I just thought . . . Shouldn't you be doing something else?"

"What else should I be doing?" He sounds amused. It makes me flustered and realize once again that I will never get used to being so close to him or talking with him.

"I . . . I don't know, reading about Napoleon or something."

He barks out a laugh. "Nah man, I'm free. But did you know Napoleon is one of my favorite parts of history?"

"Oh?"

"Yeah, Napoleon was wild. While he was trying to take over everything, he accidentally spread ideas like Nationalism across Europe, like _accidentally_. Who does that? And Europe had to exile him _twice_ because the first time he escaped back to France and convinced the entire army that showed up to arrest him to switch to his side, which led to the Battle of Waterloo."

"Oh," I say, taken in by the way his eyes are shining. "You really do love history, don't you?"

"Yep!" Alfred proclaims proudly. "I mean, some of it's boring and makes me want to blow my brains out. But it mostly depends on how well you tell history. Like my gramps, he used to tell me all sorts of things about history and he'd make them sound more like stories. He served in Vietnam, ya know? And after that, he traveled around the world a lot, and he learned a bunch and would come home and talk about it. He's pretty much my inspiration."

"He . . . must be proud," I say lamely. Alfred shrugs.

"I hope so. He passed years ago."

I'm startled enough that I at last look directly at Alfred. For the life of me, I can't read his expression and posture. Is he depressed? Angry? Completely over it and wanting me to let the subject pass by? Whatever he is, he's not smiling and I can't help but to apologize for it.

"Don't be sorry," Alfred tells me, nudging his shoulder against mine. "He died when he was traveling, so at least I know he was happy."

It's evident how important the man was to Alfred, but I don't have anything of comfort to say. No witty remarks to lighten the mood. No piece of wisdom to give.

But perhaps I have something that I might share.

I stop walking. Alfred watches me and I bite my lip as a last-ditch effort to keep myself from acting on the sudden whim.

"What is it?" he asks, and because he asks I respond.

"Would you like to go somewhere with me?"

~[ ]~

In all the time he's studied here, Alfred hadn't known the Shakespeare garden existed.

"This is only my second year," he defends, mildly embarrassed. "I bet lots of people walk by here without really looking."

We stand together on the wooden stage, Alfred glancing around curiously at the greenery and I watching the shifting expressions on his face. We're alone here, just the two of us, and it strikes me deeply how I've never brought anyone here before.

In my dreams I would see Al here. He would wander around the small enclosure with me, our hands entwined. We would sit on one of the benches, shoulder to shoulder, and we would talk about all the little things that don't matter. In this courtyard hidden from all but the sun, we'd whisper promises of everlasting affection. Our hearts would beat in harmony and it would be perfect.

But reality is different.

Alfred is larger than my imagination. He paces around the stage and talks with his hands, his gestures strong and vivacious and all over the place. He tells me things my dreams never would, like how he's not fond of gardening but loves the outdoors. How he enjoys camping with his brother but was disappointed when he wanted to study abroad. How he worked on his uncle's ranch last summer and took care of deer and wrecked a tractor in a ditch. How his parents gave him a telescope for Christmas one year and he's been obsessed with life beyond the stars ever since.

And when he's talked about all the little things that do matter, he surprises me by asking about my life.

"Me?" I ask, hardly able to meet his eyes. Surely he can't be serious. "There's not much to say."

"You don't know until you try," Alfred encourages me, and I can't help but indulge him.

I tell him about those short years spent in England, about the garden where I would play pretend. I tell him about the move to America, how my mother and aunt had a falling out leading to the two of us moving from place to place, mostly around New England. I tell him how we only settled down by my high school years, and by then my mother had reconciled with her sister. I tell him the plain facts of my life and he is somehow enchanted by it and asks for more.

"I would have never guessed," he says. "You don't really have an accent."

I shrug. "Accents change over time."

"Do you miss it? England?"

"I can't miss what I don't really remember."

Alfred nods along. "Ya know . . ." he starts to say.

He doesn't continue for a while, as if he's not sure he wants to voice his thoughts. He puts one foot in front of the other carefully, tracing the edges of the stage with his steps and holding his arms out for balance. I sit cross-legged in the middle, my bag resting comfortably in my lap as I watch him circle me.

"I'm glad you ended up here," he says at last. He peeks up at me for a moment and the sunlight flickers in those orbs of blue, illuminating the subtle hints of shy sincerity.

This Alfred is a vibrant contrast from the one in my dreams. He breathes and moves and speaks in ways I can neither fathom nor control. He is not the sun, but his brilliance has caught me in its gravity all the same, pulling me in.

"You smiled . . ." he says in something close to awe. "You don't ever do that."

No longer can I convince myself that I am simply a passive audience or someone that doesn't matter, just as long as they were someone that would listen to him. He notices me—has been noticing me this whole time. And I am starting to notice him truly in return.

He smiles at me in unabashed happiness and my heart falters painfully.

I have flown too close. Soon, I will burn.

* * *

 **Burn baby burn.**

 **And oh look, we have some backstory going on. Nice.**

 **Also, Alfred's right, Napoleon was wild. I had this one World History professor who made just about every lecture exciting and funny in some way, and his lecture on the French Revolution and rise and fall of Napoleon was one of my favorites. If Alfred's prof was anything like mine, I'm sure he enjoyed it too. Plus Alfred can't resist a good revolution. :)**


	4. Chapter 4

Reflections are distorted. We can stare into the mirror all we want, and what do we see? One face. One face among thousands of others that exist to make up who we are. Humans are too multifaceted, their expressions ever-changing. Which face we see when we happen to take a look at ourselves depends on too many variables.

No one knows how many faces we wear, not even ourselves. Some we keep hidden or outright refuse to see. Some faces are too ugly, too shameful, but we learn to cope with them. We've had years to practice meeting our own gaze in the mirror.

Reflections are distorted, yet at the same time they are subjective. What we see is completely different than what someone else sees. Who they really see is entirely up to them.

So we doubt that they could love what they see. We don't doubt because it's impossible or because we don't love ourselves.

We just don't think we're that lucky.

~[ ]~

I'm curled up on my bed with my phone held loosely in my hand. My eyes wander from the screen to the window to the pockmarked ceiling and back to the phone again. I skim through the messages over and over, and there are moments when my fingers twitch with the urge to respond.

"Who is it?" Francis asks from where he's reclined on his bed. About half a dozen pillows are propped behind his back and his legs stretch out, crossed at the ankles. A sketchbook sits open in his lap as he draws.

It's dusk on a Saturday and both of us for once find ourselves able to relax. Well, one of us does anyway.

I dodge his question with one of my own. "What are you talking about?"

"Come off it, Arthur. I'm not stupid," he retorts.

I don't say anything to that and my silence might as well be a confession. My eyes close but I can still see the words that have me hesitating far longer than I should.

 _I'm free tonight, want to hang?_

In my hesitation, I soak in the words as easily as if he was here now. I can hear the way he'd say them, can see the hopeful smile on his face. And if I let myself, my mind will wander. I'll imagine how our night would go, what new wonders it would bring.

How warm the potential pools in my stomach at the thought . . .

But I can't. I can't let myself. Any warmth is doused by the cold realization that whatever may happen would be beyond my control.

And I'm not ready for that.

My fingers finally tap out a reply. _Sorry, but I already promised to do something with my roommate._

My heart beats slow but heavy. A long, shaky intake of air expands my lungs and I hold it in as I count the beats. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .

 _Oh, okay. But next time definitely!_

My breath explodes past my lips. I have plunged the knife into my own gut and his optimism twists it. I cannot cope with it, nor do I want to.

"Get up," I tell Francis as I follow my own order. He stares at me while I hurry to find my shoes.

"What for? I'm comfortable here."

"We're going out," I tell him tersely, my tone bordering no argument.

I know he's watching me, though I don't look at him. I can feel him considering, and he knows as well as I that any 'going out' between the two of us means copious amounts of alcohol.

"Interesting," I hear him say and he gets up too to get ready.

I barely hear him. I'm too busy consoling myself that I haven't really lied.

At least, not yet.

~[ ]~

After I took him to the Shakespeare garden, Alfred gave me his number.

"That way I don't have to go looking for you in weird places," he said with a grin and I had to hide my face at the notion that he would actively wander around campus hoping to find me.

Exchanging numbers was not a step I wanted to take. It made this . . . whatever _this_ was, into something far too tangible. I didn't want to give him that connection, where he could reach me even when he wasn't there. It would give him the wrong impression.

However, this connection comes with unexpected benefits. If I can't see or hear him, I can almost imagine him to be someone else, a faceless person who can't play on my weaknesses until I cave in. If he is just words on a screen, I can tell him no or shut him out completely. I can keep him at a distance and he won't know the difference. He'll lose interest, after a time, and he'll find someone else to bother.

I've made my decision. I'll tell myself this is the best way to save us both. I'll tell myself again and again until I suffocate the voice hidden away in the deepest recesses of my mind, the one that says I'm only doing this for me. I don't want to hear that scared little part of me, because it doesn't feel the slightest bit of remorse.

I won't feel guilty for choosing myself.

~[ ]~

It's almost too simple to avoid him now.

Used to, Alfred could spot me in a crowd. He'd somehow see me among a hundred people eating in the student center and he'd wave and call out to me from across the room, unashamed by the stares he'd receive. I don't even think he noticed the scene he caused. He was too busy looking at me.

He can't find me if I don't go out as much, which is why I stay in my dorm more than ever now. When I have to go to class, I don't dawdle. I get there as quickly as possible, taking out-of-the-way routes, and if I happen to catch a glimpse of sun-kissed hair or sky blue eyes, I fade into the background where I belong.

 _Seems like I don't see you around as much_ , he messages me and I don't bat an eye at my response.

 _My classes have been keeping me busy_.

It's the truth, or close enough. I make myself as busy as I do scarce. I feed him excuses and he believes me. He swallows them down so easily, and all I feel is relief.

I don't have to worry now. I can reverse the clock, take us back to that time before he noticed me, and stop myself from making any more mistakes. If he no longer sees me . . . if he forgets I exist . . . then he cannot hurt me. And his smile can live eternally in my memories.

I'm happier this way.

~[ ]~

It's pouring down buckets. Although there should still be light left in the day, it's covered by a swollen gray mass. Lightning skitters through the low-hanging clouds and thunder rumbles almost at the same time.

I make it to my dorm but not before getting drenched. Other students that live here linger around the lobby, giggling on the couches when the thunder reverberates through the building. The lights flicker once in warning.

I think about the storm as I ride the elevator up to the fifth floor. I think about my wet clothes, about how tired I am, about what I'll do if the electricity fails. All I want to do is change and go to bed.

I can't follow through with my plan. Inside my dorm room is Francis sitting at his desk with Alfred huddled beside him. They both look up as I freeze by the door.

"Welcome back, Arthur," Francis says, smiling pleasantly, and in that moment I see past my own shock and everything becomes clear.

I don't know how or why, but I know without a doubt that Francis has done this on purpose. If Alfred hadn't been in the room, I would be punching his smirking, bearded face right now. As it is, Alfred has jumped up, eyes wide and bright and completely focused on me.

"Arthur! Dude, you're roommates with Francis?" he asks and before I can remember how to speak, he's crossed the space between us to embrace me. I can't think or move, but it doesn't matter because it's over as quickly as it's begun. Alfred holds me by the shoulders, looking down at me with a concerned frown that doesn't belong on his face. "Hey, you're all wet."

"That's what happens when it rains, idiot," I reply automatically. I immediately regret it though I bite my cheek to keep from apologizing. Alfred's the one who's here when he shouldn't be.

"Did I not mention we were roommates?" Francis interrupts. "I didn't realize you two knew each other."

"Yeah, we're buds!" Alfred says quite proudly. He throws an arm over my shoulder, regardless of how soaked my clothes are, and I have to refrain from instinctively pushing him away.

"Is that a fact?" Francis says, smug. "Small world. Al's a friend of Feliciano's—you remember Feliciano, right Arthur? Anyway, we met and Al was nice enough to tutor me in math."

My fists curl so tightly that I can feel the nails dig into my skin.

"You liar," I hiss. "You've already finished your math courses."

I don't know if he expected me to call him out, but when his mouth opens, I cut him off.

"Shut up! I don't want to hear any of your excuses."

Again, I don't know what he expected from this . . . this . . . _backstabbing_ ruse, but he certainly didn't anticipate how genuinely furious I'd be. It's all I can do to restrain myself and my shoulders shake underneath Alfred's arm from the sheer amount of effort it takes.

"Whoa," Alfred utters beside me at the sudden shift of atmosphere, but I don't want to look at him. I don't want to look at either of them.

"Arthur, please be reasonable," Francis begins, rising from his seat. I turn away from him, shrugging off Alfred's arm in the process. I stride to my bed and deposit my dripping bag on the sheets without a care.

"Don't talk to me. Get out."

My voice is so biting and the air so tense that Francis doesn't try to reason with me. There's a long pause before his footsteps hurry away and the door opens and closes. I don't breathe any easier after he's gone.

"Okaaay," Alfred drones, voice careful like he's facing a wild animal. "I guess you don't want to explain what that was about?"

No, I don't, and standing here, feeling his eyes on my back, is too much.

"Didn't think so," he says feebly. "Um, I know I don't know what's going on, but I feel like I did something bad, so I'm sorry." He gives me a moment, but carries on when I say nothing. "It's just that, I've never seen you this pissed. So if you want to talk about it . . . I'll listen or whatever."

It's far too much and I don't know whether to scream or cry at how wrong things have turned.

"Arthur?" he calls and lightly touches my arm.

"Don't," I say shortly, knocking his hand away, but he's achieved what he was after. I've turned enough that we're looking at each other. We're face to face in this small room and there's nowhere for me to hide.

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He tries to smile but gives up. "Sheesh, I'm just trying to cheer you up."

"You should go then."

Many days ago, when we'd been sitting by the fountain together, Alfred had asked me if I wanted to be alone, and I knew in my heart of hearts that had I asked, he would have left without comment.

Now, he doesn't look so willing to leave.

"Are you sure?" he asks like he hopes I'll change my mind. "Because I haven't seen you in a while. I thought that we could—"

"I can't," I cut him off.

There's a part of me that wants to be surprised by how much has changed since then, when I couldn't bear to turn him away. But it's all fallen through now. I'm backed into a corner and it's all his fault and I—

"I can't do this anymore," I tell him.

"Do . . . do what anymore?" he asks though I can see somewhere underneath his lost expression that he knows what I'm talking about.

" _This_ ," I gesture at both of us. "I can't do _this_ anymore. I'm tired of it. So you should just go."

He takes a minute to process it, again giving me a chance to take my words back, but I won't. I stare down resolutely at his shoes, at the words written there, and I find them horribly ironic.

"You've been avoiding me," he says. It's not a question. Alfred isn't blind. I've been a fool to think otherwise, just because it made things easier. " . . .why?"

"Because . . ."

 _Because it hurts in the most inexplicable way to feel your gaze on me. It hurts, not because you see me as worthless, but because you might someday after I've already decided that you're worth too much to me._

"Because you're not perfect," I say. No matter how many times I would try to overlap the Alfred in my mind with the one before me, the two could never mesh. I can't control him, not this Alfred, and I could never live with myself if I tried to.

So I'll move forward without him.

"Because I'm not . . . perfect?" The disbelief is carved into every syllable. Said again in his voice, the words sound insufficient. He laughs, raw and bitter. "I really didn't think you were that kind of a person, Arthur."

That makes me glance up. His jaw is tight and his stare pierces through me, scrutinizing me in accusation. But underneath all of that, his eyes seem to still ask why.

He leaves out the door and I make no move to stop him. If he's hurt, then it's not my problem. It's his fault. I didn't ask for him to ever approach me or to keep bothering me. He brought this on himself and I won't feel sorry for choosing myself. It's my life. I can live it the way I want to.

Even so, my body reacts without a second thought and I grab the nearest object I can get my hands on and hurl it at the mirror hanging by the door. My alarm clock breaks upon impact and the mirror splinters into a web of cracks. Most of the shards stay in place, reflecting the room in fragments.

Behind the glass my shattered face looks back at me and I'm forced to see every last piece.

* * *

 **Arthur is a smol, angsty bean who does too much. Everyone give him a hug, just group pile him. That way he can't run away.**

 **Remember, reviews feed the muse. ;)**


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